


The Science of Seduction

by Sarbear08



Series: The Science of Seduction [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Eventual Smut, Eye Sex, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Holding Hands, Idiots in Love, Lots of Touching, Lots of sexual tension, M/M, Oh no Sherlock burns a hole in his mattress, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock drives John mad, Sherlock seduces John, Sherlock takes his clothes off, Smut, Touching, bathing together, bottomlock, dark forests, it's for an experiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27195763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarbear08/pseuds/Sarbear08
Summary: Sherlock decides to seduce John and gets a bit more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Science of Seduction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996216
Comments: 18
Kudos: 236





	The Science of Seduction

The first time it happens, John thinks nothing of it—besides thinking _about_ it endlessly for days afterwards.

John is sitting at the desk in the sitting room, his index fingers tediously tapping away at the keys of his laptop as he recounts their latest adventure. He’s just writing about Sherlock’s unmatched brilliance as he went about deducing the entirety of the crime in a matter of minutes. _“Search the flat of the second cousin, I believe you’ll find him in possession of a rather compromising bloody knife,”_ was all he’d said and just like that, the crime had been solved and John had been thoroughly amazed.

An unexpected hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he starts, turning to find Sherlock’s head just inches from his own, his eyes darting across the screen as he absorbs the words into that incredible mind of his. His slender fingers shift on John’s shoulder. If it were anyone else’s hand, John would have said the motion was meant to be a poorly masked caress, but this was Sherlock Holmes, so it certainly wouldn’t be that.

“Really, John,” Sherlock says. “There is no need to romanticize things like that. Hardly paints an accurate image of the work we do.”

John quirks an eyebrow. This is new. Well, Sherlock telling him how to write his blog is not by any means new, but he’s never done it in such a _close_ proximity before.

John simply attributes this to the fact that Sherlock has never seemed to grasp the concept of personal space—not that John minds, really.

All too soon, Sherlock straightens and shuffles back to the kitchen to continue with whatever experiment he’s been working on.

******

The second time it happens, John becomes suspicious, because there’s no _way_ that this time is simply just an accident.

They’ve just climbed into a cab, heading back to Baker Street after a particularly taxing case. Sherlock slides in first but stops for some reason unbeknownst to John near the middle of the seat, leaving the doctor to squish in rather uncomfortably on the remaining portion of the seat. He is currently pressed from shoulder to leg against Sherlock, who seems to have no notion of moving further over anytime soon.

A single glance at Sherlock reveals that he is deep in thought—at least he seems to be, as far as John can tell. One can never be quite sure when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

With a sigh, John shifts and resigns himself to being decidedly uncomfortable for the duration of the trip home. He shifts again, his knee pressing into Sherlock’s. His left arm is presently being squished in-between his and Sherlock’s bodies, and it would be much more comfortable if he could just swing it across Sherlock’s shoulders and rest it there, but that would certainly lead to all manner of issues that he really doesn’t want to have to deal with right now. Instead, he settles for awkwardly curling his arm inwards, his hand braced against his thigh. John gazes out the window, taking in the busy streets of London in an attempt to distract himself from the uncomfortable position he’s been forced into.

The cab turns a rather violent corner and John nearly knocks his skull against the window. He’s startled when a hand comes to rest atop his own. It seems Sherlock has been unbalanced as much as John from the harsh corner that the cabbie has just taken, and that this motion is solely meant to be a steadying one. At least this is what John thinks. But then Sherlock’s hand stays there and John thinks that perhaps, there is more to that rather suspicious gesture than meets the eye.

Sherlock leaves his hand entwined with John’s, resting on top of John’s thigh and staring resolutely out the opposite window for the remainder of the drive. John supposes he shouldn’t be as content as he is to have his flatmate’s hand in his. He is, after all, decidedly not gay. Yet when he steals a glance at Sherlock with his hair framed in the almost ethereal light coming in through the window, his ridiculous, accentuated cheekbones, his long, pale neck, and–

“John?”

 _Oh._ Someone is speaking to him. No, not just someone; _Sherlock_ is speaking to him.

“Sorry, what was that?” John asks, futilely hoping that the detective won’t deduce his thoughts from the blush rising on his cheeks.

“Alright?” Sherlock asks, a hint of concern present in the deep timbre of his voice.

John nods and lets out a rather strangled noise that was meant to be affirming, but instead sounds like they should perhaps be making a stop at the nearest A & E.

Sherlock quirks a brow but thankfully says nothing further of the matter.

“As I was saying,” Sherlock says and dives into a reverie of their latest case. John is only able to half listen though—Sherlock’s hand in his is far too distracting.

******

The following few weeks are comprised of heated gazes, lingering touches, considerably closer proximity at crime scenes—at a particularly gruesome one, they even allow their fingers to brush together—seemingly purposeful caresses, fingers brushing against one another as tea is passed back and forth, and Sherlock constantly insisting that he’s cold and snuggling up next to John on the sofa, despite the fact that there is always a blanket draped across the back of the sofa. Apparently retrieving said blanket would require too much focus to be redirected from whatever case Sherlock happened to be in the midst of solving at the time, so John didn’t bother to make a fuss about it.

One particular evening, John had just returned from a grueling double shift at the surgery, and he made a beeline for the sofa where he promptly sunk into the cushions with a sigh. Sherlock was slouched in his chair, limbs askew and eyes closed, but he must have heard John come in because the moment he’d settled on the sofa, Sherlock sprung from his chair to join him. To be honest, after the day he’s had, John wouldn’t mind a bit of cuddling—all completely platonic, of course.

Much to John’s disappointment, Sherlock settles at the opposite end of the sofa, rather than next to him as he normally does. Okay, up against him. Okay, more like _on top_ of him. But the fact of the matter is that Sherlock is not _close_ to him. He might as well be on the other side of the world for all John cares if he’s going to sit _that_ far away from him.

John is still busy silently mourning the distinct lack of Sherlock’s immediate presence when something shifts against the underside of his thigh. He looks down to see Sherlock’s toes wiggle once more in a clear attempt to work their way underneath his leg. He gives Sherlock a halfhearted glare for a moment before relenting and allowing Sherlock to slide his toes under the warmth of his thigh.

Sherlock gives him a small shrug, the corners of his mouth quirking up into an unmistakable grin. “Cold,” is all the explanation he gives, and to be honest, John would have been fine with even less explanation than that.

******

John’s heart is pounding. Blood pumping through his veins. Adrenaline thrumming through his body. He is in pure _bliss._

They had been running through the streets of London in pursuit of one Marcus Wallman for their latest case, although somewhere along the way, the tables had turned quite considerably, and now Marcus is the one doing the chasing. With a knife. A very _very_ large and sharp-looking knife. One that even John would struggle to remove from the man’s grip. The amount of drugs Marcus currently has running through his body are also no help, making him even stronger and faster and far more dangerous than John would like.

As always, Lestrade along with the rest of New Scotland Yard have been incredibly slow, and will likely not come to their aid anytime soon. For now, it is simply John and Sherlock against the world. It is positively _thrilling._

Thrilling at least, until they wind up exhausted in the pitch-black woods still being relentlessly chased by Marcus, who, it seems, won’t be stopping until Lestrade and his team manage to find him or he drops dead from exhaustion, the latter of the two being far more likely at this point.

“Sherlock,” John hisses into the dark, because he can’t see where the detective has gone. He can’t see much of anything, in fact, unless it’s extremely close to him.

John lets out a strangled gasp as a hand covers his mouth from behind, another arm wrapping around his waist and pulling him back against a warm, solid body. A tall body. With a rather familiar scent. So not a crazed man high off his arse on drugs wielding a knife, then. John supposes he should consider himself lucky at that.

“Shh,” Sherlock breathes into his ear. John shivers involuntarily at the sensation and silently curses himself because there is no way Sherlock didn’t feel that.

A twig snaps to their right, and Sherlock’s arms tighten around John, effectively pulling him closer. Marcus stumbles into sight, his figure just barely visible in the dark. Moonlight glints off the large knife, giving it a deadly glow in the dark of the forest. It is quite clear from the way the man constantly stumbles and curses that the drugs are taking their toll, and it won’t be long now until the full effects have vanished and he can be easily subdued.

They let him pass by, then wait a few moments, just to make sure he hasn’t somehow turned himself around and headed back towards them.

“Come on,” Sherlock says, releasing his grip on John.

“Wait, I can barely see anything,” John hisses as he fumbles around in the dark, just narrowly avoiding a tree.

He squints when he sees something soft and pale appear in front of him: a hand.

“Take my hand,” Sherlock says, and though John can’t see his face, he can hear a hint of a grin in the detective’s voice.

And so John does take Sherlock’s hand, and they run off into the night together. Once they’ve gotten back into the city, their hands remain tightly clasped together. They don’t let go until they’re back in their flat and forced to part only to go to their respective bedrooms for the night.

******

Then Sherlock gets injured, and John breaks many more bones than needed in subduing the man who hurt Sherlock, but he figures fair is fair. Sherlock insists he doesn’t need to be seen by the paramedics, much to John and Lestrade’s insistence. John, seeing no point in arguing with an injured man, reluctantly agrees to take Sherlock back to Baker Street and examine him there. 

Sherlock flops down on the couch and John wonders who gave him the right to look so gorgeous, all splayed out like that, his limbs a glorious mess of harsh, unforgiving angles. He unbuttons his shirt, opens it and says “touch me, John,” and John instantly knows he’s in major trouble, because he probably shouldn’t feel like _that_ about his flatmate.

John does not miss the insinuations behind the intonation of Sherlock’s voice that have exactly nothing to do with John’s professional, doctory touch and everything to do with something entirely different. And despite every rational instinct in his mind screaming at him to stop. To step away. To not let this go any further, he settles down in the unnecessarily small space Sherlock has cleared for him on the edge of the couch and reaches out. 

The second his fingers touch Sherlock’s skin, they’re on fire. Actual literal fire. He’s almost positive his hands are about to spontaneously combust. 

John takes a deep breath, steeling himself and runs his hands over Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock _shivers_ under the touch, or maybe it’s John shivering or maybe they’re both trembling. John sucks in a breath before continuing, his hands rasping in the silence of the flat as they slide across Sherlock’s pale skin. 

“Does this hurt?” John asks quietly, pressing his thumbs gently into Sherlock’s abdomen.

“No,” Sherlock squeaks.

“Here?” Another press.

Sherlock only shakes his head this time.

John takes much longer than necessary examining Sherlock, even though he knew after the first glance that nothing was likely to be broken. Better safe than sorry, though, he tells himself.

“Nothing broken,” John finally says as he rises. “You’re bloody lucky, Sherlock.”

“Aren’t you going to kiss it better?” Sherlock pouts.

Heat flares to life in John’s face, likely turning it a rather telling shade of red.

John flees the room.

******

John can’t sleep that night and finds he’s wandered out to the couch at some point in the night. He can’t stop thinking. About Sherlock. His flatmate. His best friend. Spread out on the couch last night as though he were an offering. 

_“You’re not going to kiss it better?”_

It wasn’t that John didn’t want to. Oh, he _wanted._ But did Sherlock? Did the madman have any _idea_ what he’d been doing to John for the past few weeks? He was driving John utterly insane. 

John was quite sure Sherlock was going to destroy him if they kept on like this—in this strange limbo of being more than friends but not quite enough _more._ John decided he would actually very much like to find out what it was like to be completely and utterly destroyed by Sherlock Holmes. 

“Can’t sleep?” 

John jumps, Sherlock’s voice startling him out of his reverie. 

“Hmph,” John says articulately. 

Sherlock blinks, then settles down next to John on the couch. Well, more like _against_ John. 

“Heard you pacing.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“‘S no problem.” Sherlock waves a hand nonchalantly through the air and presses closer to John. 

“My room is horribly cold,” Sherlock explains. Not that John needed an explanation. 

Then, to John’s surprise, Sherlock actually pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and– _oh._ He wraps it around _both_ of them before snuggling closer to John and resting his head on the doctor’s shoulder. It appears he plans on staying the night there, then. 

John thinks over his options for a few moments before he realizes Sherlock’s breathing has evened out. It seems he’s actually fallen asleep. On John’s shoulder. Pressed entirely against John’s side. 

John finds this rather odd, but considering the amount of sleep—or lack thereof—that the detective normally gets, he decides to resign himself to the situation and settle in for the night on the couch. With his flatmate. At least, this is the reason he tells himself for doing so.

And if he wraps his arms around Sherlock, it is merely for the practicality of comfort, and absolutely nothing more.

******

The second Martin McDonald—according to Sherlock’s deductions, the culprit in a particularly gruesome murder—advances towards Sherlock a few days after the couch incident, John intercepts him without a moments hesitation. He tackles him to the ground where Martin pulls a knife out, waving it wildly like a feral animal in John’s direction. John just barely manages to dodge the first and second lunge of the knife, the gleaming blade flashing in the bright moonlight.

In one swift movement, John disarms Martin, the knife bouncing along the ground and over the edge of the embankment, landing in the Thames with a _sploosh._ Martin pauses for a moment, his eyes following the trajectory of the knife before returning to meet John’s. They are cold and dark and completely _evil,_ positively mad with rage. Before John has any time to react, Martin is throwing his entire body at John and then they’re both tumbling over the edge and into the frigid water of the Thames.

John thinks he hears Sherlock shriek and then there’s hands clutching at his shirt and his arms, dragging him out onto the bank. Sherlock’s face hovers above him and John thinks he’s never seen Sherlock look that _worried_ before, the raw emotion etched across his features in harsh lines.

“Fine,” John splutters, clutching at Sherlock’s sleeves. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock lets out a breath, the air puffing warm and damp across John’s face. He shivers, only just realizing how cold he is. Sherlock leans in closer and–

The loud wail of sirens cuts through the air, making both men jump. Lestrade arrives and sends his men to pull out a successfully subdued and rather disoriented Martin McDonald from the icy water, then orders John over to the paramedics. 

Sherlock hovers while John sits on the back of the ambulance, teeth chattering despite the blanket the paramedics have wrapped around him. The detective keeps sending him sidelong glances then frowning and looking away before repeating the cyclical process all over. 

Finally, Sherlock stands and plucks the blanket from John’s shoulders, tossing it into the back of the ambulance. 

“Hey!” John exclaims. 

“You’re not in shock,” Sherlock hisses. “You don’t need a blanket.”

John shivers and wraps his arms around his middle, curling up as much as possible where he’s seated on the back of the ambulance. No less than a moment later, something soft and heavy and undeniably _warm_ drapes around his shoulders. 

John blinks and looks up to see that Sherlock is no longer wearing his coat. He’s looking at John with a mixture of worry and anger and something much, much softer hidden just under the surface and perhaps John wasn’t meant to see it, but he did. 

“Thank you,” he says, because he’s not sure what else to say. What else to _do_ with the swell of unbidden emotions rising in him, crashing to the surface and breaking free from where he’d securely locked them away, deep in the confines of his heart.

Sherlock nods, then proceeds to insist that John needs to go home to warm up and that paperwork and such can wait until tomorrow. Thankfully, Lestrade doesn’t bother to argue, and soon they’re both sitting in the back of a cab, on their way back to Baker Street. 

John’s teeth are still chattering and despite the comforting warmth Sherlock’s coat is providing, his entire body is shivering so violently he’s nearly rocking the whole cab back and forth. This, of course, does not escape Sherlock’s notice, and he silently shuffles across the seat of the cab until he’s close enough to pull John into his arms. John isn’t sure why Sherlock has been touching him so much lately—it’s really not like him to initiate any sort of physical contact. In fact, he generally avoids it as studiously as possible. But in this moment, John is eternally grateful for whatever it is that Sherlock is planning because his chest is so very delightfully warm and John’s managed to burrow as close as possible against Sherlock and he’s warm and wonderful and– John lets out a long, contented sigh, the shivering finally beginning to subside.

They ride in companionable silence all the way back to Baker Street. 

John stumbles on the stairs, so Sherlock wraps one arm around his waist and positions the other in a steadying motion on John’s arm. John is still shivering, though less so than before, but Sherlock insists on running him a hot bath anyways, just to be safe. 

He sits John on the lid of the loo as he fills the tub, studiously making sure it’s the perfect temperature. He doesn’t leave when the tub is filled. Instead, he kicks the door shut—presumably to offer some privacy in case Mrs. Hudson decides to walk in. 

“Oh no,” John says, attempting and failing to stand on his own.

He forgets how bone-chillingly cold he is and suddenly, he feels all too warm in their tiny bathroom with the steam curling around them in elegant tendrils and with Sherlock standing so close and looking at him like _that._

John thinks that perhaps freezing to death wouldn’t be so bad after all, because he’s certainly going to die from _this._

“Let me help you, John,” Sherlock says softly, moving to remove his coat from John’s shoulders. John shies away to the best of his ability, considering his slightly frozen state. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but his words have an unexpected amount of tenderness to them. “For god’s sake, John, you can barely stand. Let me help you.”

This is a bad idea. John _knows_ this is a bad idea.

Yet when Sherlock reaches up again to peel the Belstaff from John’s shoulders, he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to move away.

Sherlock silently undresses John, his slender fingers moving deftly and with a detached, matter-of-fact intent as he removes John’s clothing methodically piece by piece.

Once all of John’s still slightly damp clothing has been deposited on the bathroom floor, Sherlock takes him by the arms and tries to help him step into the bathtub. John stills him with a hand pressed to the detective’s chest. He lets his fingers wander until they’re tugging at the top button of Sherlock’s shirt.

“You too,” John says, and he’s not really quite sure why he says it, but he does all the same. And of course, Sherlock complies.

He places a hand over John’s for a moment before gently pulling it away to unbutton the rest of his shirt. He undresses with motions of quick efficiency, his eyes never leaving John’s.

Even though Sherlock’s eyes hadn’t slipped south so much as once while he was undressing John, the doctor can’t help but steal a brief glance downwards. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks into a lopsided grin, his eyebrows slightly raised. John can’t help but grin back before Sherlock helps him sink into the pleasantly hot water. Perhaps it’s because of the cold, or perhaps it’s simply from the events leading up to this day, but John decides that he’s rather tired of attempting—and failing—to hide his feelings from his flatmate.

So when Sherlock sinks into the water behind him, wraps his long arms around John’s waist and pulls him in against his chest, John happily obliges and sinks back into the comforting heat of his flatmate’s body.

He feels warm and content and rather happy as Sherlock dries him off and helps him dress before tucking him into his bed. It’s rather odd though—as soon as Sherlock leaves his bedroom, it was as though he’d taken all the heat with him, and John’s shivering resumes, making it incredibly difficult for him to actually fall asleep.

******

John did not sleep well for the following three nights, although he convinced himself that that had absolutely nothing to do with the lack of consulting detective in close proximity. They hadn’t spoken a word about what had happened that night after the Thames, and John had decided that it definitely crossed well beyond the lines of friendship.

The fourth night, after he’d actually managed to fall asleep before midnight, he is awoken with a start by something. As he quickly finds out, that something turns out to be an abundant litany of smoke being inhaled into his nostrils. John coughs and sits up, instantly wide awake. 

Something is on fire. The whole bloody _flat_ must be on fire. If this is one of Sherlock’s experiments gone wrong–

John leaps out of bed and dashes down the stairs, the telling trail of smoke leading him directly to Sherlock’s bedroom. John bursts through the door to find Sherlock dressed in only a worn, old t-shirt and pyjama pants standing over his bed, which is indeed smoking. In his hand is what appears to be a recently-emptied glass of what was hopefully water and not some other noxious chemical. 

Sherlock’s head snaps up as John enters the room, his expression one of pure, childish innocence.

“John,” Sherlock greets him as though this was any other normal day. 

“Christ, Sherlock. What the _hell?_ ”

“It seems we’ve had a small fire,” Sherlock points out. 

John has the sudden, inexplicable—okay, maybe not so inexplicable—urge to smash his head against the nearest wall. Repeatedly. 

“Sherlock,” John says, struggling to keep his voice even. “It’s bloody three in the morning,” he all but seethes. 

“Yes.”

“Three,” John repeats. “In the _morning._ ”

“Yes, as you’ve said. And I was actually planning on going to bed following the proceedings of this experiment but now it seems I don’t have a bed.” Sherlock pauses, studying his bed for a moment. “Well, a usable one,” he amends. 

“We have a couch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t fit on the couch. How do you expect me to sleep on something I don’t even fit on?”

“Sleep?? You _never_ sleep!” John is vaguely aware he’s yelling now, but it’s bloody three in the morning and he would very much like to go back to his bed. 

“I do sleep!”

“A few nights ago, on the couch. That’s the only time I’ve ever even _seen_ you sleep.”

Sherlock stares at John with an infuriatingly blank expression.

“You know, when you drooled all over my shoulder,” John says.

“I think that’s rather the point,” Sherlock murmurs. 

“What,” John says. It’s not a question. 

Sherlock stares at him, rather intensely for a much longer period of time than John is really comfortable with. 

Finally John lets out a long, resigned sigh, pressing a hand to his temple. 

“I’m going to bed, Sherlock,” he says. “No more fires, please.”

Sherlock takes a step towards him, opening his mouth as though he’s about to say something, but then snaps it shut just as quickly. John eyes him for a moment, studying his expression in a futile attempt to deduce it. He fails. Obviously. 

Sherlock gazes at him intently, the epitome of puppy dog eyes. John sighs. Sherlock is about to win this unspoken battle. Sherlock always wins. 

“Fine,” John says with an exasperated sigh. “You can sleep in my bed, but _just for tonight._ ” John knows he’s going to regret this. In fact, he already does. Yet he doesn’t. It’s an awfully bad idea, this. 

He turns and leaves the room before he can change his mind and as he trudges up the stairs to his bedroom, he can hear Sherlock’s bare feet padding up the stairs behind him. Just one night, he reminds himself. Out of necessity. It means nothing. That thought disappoints him far more than it comforts him. 

John slides into bed and mumbles “stay on your own side,” and he rolls over to face the wall before his traitorous arms and legs and other bits can ignore his mind and give into the temptation of _Sherlock._

John feels the bed dip and shift as Sherlock adjusts himself next to John, leaving more than a respectable distance between them, as requested. John isn’t sure if he’s pleased about this or secretly disappointed by it. He thinks about it until he finally manages to fall asleep. 

******

When John wakes to the bright beams of sunlight filtering in through his window, he thankfully smells no trace of the smoke from the night before, as though it had never happened. But it had. The armful of consulting detective that is currently pressed along the entire length of his body is evidence enough of that fact. At some point in the night, the gap that had been between them had closed and apparently disappeared altogether. One of Sherlock’s legs is slung over John’s hips and John is surprised to find that it appears it was in fact _his_ arms that have pulled Sherlock this close. So impossibly, achingly _close._ And yet not close enough at all. 

John stares at the disheveled mop of curls just inches under his chin, Sherlock’s soft exhales of breath whispering across his neck in warm, damp puffs. With a soft sigh, he finally gives in to the temptation and plunges a hand into Sherlock’s hair, gently scraping his fingernails across the detective’s scalp. 

Sherlock stirs, roused by the movement and gives a small hum of approval, snuggling deeper into John’s neck, his lips now brushing the sensitive skin there. John relaxes bonelessly into the sheets, feeling more at ease than he has in– well, ever, really, if he’s being honest with himself. He silently resigns himself to being content—okay, quite a bit more than content—with having a lie-in with his flatmate. His friend. His _Sherlock._

Because they are all of that. But they are also so much more. Their relationship, whatever it may be, completely transcends any and all labels. Because John Watson is not, in fact, gay—despite what seems to be popular opinion. But John Watson is indeed completely and irrevocably _in love_ with Sherlock Holmes. And that’s alright, he thinks, feeling perfectly at ease with the startling fact he’s just admitted to himself. 

Suddenly, John wants to hold him, to tell him, to be closer than close to him, to love him, to make love to him. _With_ him. John wants it _all._ The feeling of pure, unadulterated _need_ is so overwhelming, John thinks he might nearly die, no matter how clinically impossible that may be. 

Sherlock shifts and sighs into John’s neck then smacks his lips as he wakes, rubbing the haze of sleep from his eyes. His eyes meet John’s for a moment and he gives the doctor a small, tentatively genuine smile. And then John is lost, floating in a sea of the blues and greens and silvers of Sherlock’s eyes and maybe he really will die from this love. Maybe it will burn him up, from the inside out. Take him apart piece by piece. Bit by bit. What a lovely way to go, John thinks. 

And then Sherlock is gone, his leg removed from John’s waist. His head gone from the doctor’s chest. And the man himself is sliding out from under the covers and _leaving._ The cold that comes next is positively unbearable. Worse than anything John has ever experienced. His heart is twisted and shattered and Sherlock takes it with him as he pads his way downstairs. 

John is sure Sherlock is going to destroy him. And perhaps not in a good way after all.

******

John makes sure to shut and lock his bedroom door to prevent Sherlock from wandering back in—unlikely as it is, the man does have no concept of personal space—and he quickly and efficiently takes care of the rather inconvenient side effect waking next to Sherlock has had on his body. He is unable to stop himself from gasping his flatmate’s name and claps a hand over his mouth as the waves of pleasure course through him.

After taking a moment to compose himself, he changes into clean clothes and makes his way downstairs, completely and utterly unprepared for the sight awaiting him: Sherlock is spread out in his chair, all gorgeous angles and long limbs, and he’s actually _eating_. Well, okay, he’s not so much eating as licking his favourite jam from his fingers in an unnecessarily seductive manner that’s about to make John spin on his heel and head back to his room to take matters into his own hands—quite literally—for the second time that morning. But Sherlock is _right there_ and how easy would it be to just sidle up to him and– John’s eyes trail hungrily down Sherlock’s lean frame. It seems Sherlock is wearing absolutely nothing under his deep blue dressing gown, judging from the way it’s riding indecently high on his thighs and dropping open to create a vee at the neck, both places revealing planes of soft, pale skin just waiting to be touched, mapped, kissed, sucked, _worshipped_. 

John is ninety-nine percent sure Sherlock was wearing pyjamas when they woke up, given how closely they were entangled. Which means Sherlock deliberately _took his clothes off_ and John imagines how easy it would be to sink to his knees in front of Sherlock, tug that damned dressing gown up just a fraction higher, lean down and–

“John?”

“What?” John startles and shifts uncomfortably. 

“I was saying–” Sherlock continues talking, but both John’s eyes and mind can’t help but drift to more salacious thoughts. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Sherlock huffs and shifts in his chair, the dressing gown—and his legs, for that matter—falling slightly more open, as though it’s a silent invitation. 

John’s entire body is nearly vibrating right out of his skin and if Sherlock just looked downwards, he’d get quite an eyeful of something that wouldn’t take a genius to deduce the meaning of. John wanted. No, John _needed._ He was physically going to keel over and die right there if he didn’t kiss Sherlock and touch Sherlock right about now. And then John is moving of his own accord and he’s straddling Sherlock, who lets out a surprised gasp. 

“That’s quite enough of that,” John breathes as he leans forward and presses his lips to Sherlock’s. He pulls back when Sherlock stills under him, worried he’s been imaging the signs over the past few weeks, but then Sherlock’s hands are in his hair and he’s pulling John back down and smashing their lips unceremoniously together. They kiss and kiss and kiss and then they kiss some more and John relishes in the slide of lips and tongue and teeth, exploring every inch of Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock lets out a low moan and slumps further into his chair as John sucks and kisses down his neck, leaving large red marks in his wake. John moves back to Sherlock’s mouth and they kiss until their lips are bright and swollen, their breathing coming out in sporadic huffs of desperate breath and then suddenly it’s not enough and John wants _more._ He wants _all_ of Sherlock. But John is nothing if not a gentleman, so he asks, “bed?”

“Hngh. _Yes,_ ” Sherlock manages to mumble as he catches his breath. 

John gives him one more quick kiss, leaving the promise of so much more in its wake, and then stands, pulling the detective up with him. They stumble down the hallway as their kissing resumes, John guiding Sherlock—and also mostly holding him up because it seems his legs have stopped functioning altogether. 

At one point, Sherlock ends up pressed in-between a wall and John’s body and he slumps forward into John and mumbles something into his neck. 

“What was that?” John asks. 

“No– Bed,” Sherlock pants. 

Ah yes, John remembers: Sherlock burned a hole through his mattress—not exactly conducive to what he had planned to do there. He shifts course seamlessly and starts guiding Sherlock to the stairs, although at this point he’s practically dragging the man. With a small chuckle, John picks up Sherlock, one hand on either of his thighs, encouraging them to wrap around his waist and starts making his way up the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock is by no means heavy, but he’s also not light, and John stumbles twice but it doesn’t matter because Sherlock is nibbling at his ear and John can feel his heart pounding wildly against Sherlock’s where their chests are pressed together. 

John manages to kick the door of his bedroom shut and deposits Sherlock on his bed, laid out in the middle with his dressing gown flowing around him like an ethereal work of art. How is it possible, John thinks, for someone so infuriatingly _perfect_ to be anything but. John makes quick work of his clothing, tossing it onto the floor while Sherlock watches intently, his hungry eyes tracing along every plane and curve of John’s body. Sherlock’s chest is rapidly rising and falling at such an alarming rate, John is genuinely concerned that the man might actually hyperventilate. 

“Sherlock. Breathe,” John reminds him, brushing an errant curl from his forehead. 

Sherlock leans into the touch, then turns and sucks at John’s palm. 

“ _God,_ ” John breathes, and Sherlock hums, the sound vibrating against John’s hand and sending all his blood rushing southwards. 

He pulls his hand back and captures Sherlock’s mouth in a sloppy, wet kiss, heavy with need. As he works at snogging Sherlock senseless, his hands trail slowly down the detective’s body until they reach the ties of his dressing gown. He pauses briefly, pulling back slightly to look at Sherlock. He gives a sharp nod and sighs as John continues, helping him to sit up somewhat to get the dressing gown off. 

Once the dressing gown has been appropriately discarded, John climbs back on top of Sherlock and the kissing resumes, this time along with the glorious slide of flesh against flesh, hands roaming through hair, across arms, bellies, chests, thighs. 

When John is satisfied with how thoroughly kissed Sherlock looks, he begins to make his way down his neck to his chest, then belly, and then lower yet. Sherlock gasps and mumbles an unintelligible string of words which may be curses, praise, or declarations of love. To be honest, John would be quite fine with any of those. Sherlock finally stills and John halts his ministrations, glancing up briefly through his eyelashes to make sure the man is still alive. The sight he’s met with makes John’s breathing stutter and he pauses for a moment from the steady rhythm he’s created with his mouth and tongue: Sherlock is biting down on the back of his hand, his entire body trembling. 

“John,” he manages to gasp. “Here. Come. Here. Going to. Have to. Stop that. If you want. This. To last.”

Sherlock sounds completely wrecked and John groans before climbing back up Sherlock’s body and kissing him soundly, trying to convey all his emotions into the one action of lips and teeth and tongue.

He lets his hands sink deep into Sherlock’s hair, pulling and stroking and coaxing out all manner of filthy sounds from the detective’s mouth, only to be absorbed and swallowed by John’s mouth. Sherlock’s body is a juxtaposition, contradicting itself, all soft and pliant under John’s hands and yet all sharp, harsh angles. John lets his hands trail across Sherlock’s abdomen and the detective’s mouth falls open in a soft gasp. John dives forwards, plunging his tongue into the warm, wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth and conducting a rather thorough exploratory search of it.

John finally releases Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock leans forwards, panting into the other man’s neck. His curls have never looked so debauched in his life, John thinks, and he _loves_ it. All of it. All of this ridiculous man who has somehow chosen _him,_ John Watson, to be his and only his.

“What do you want?” John asks. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Sherlock all but begs, slender fingers clutching at John’s hips.

“Oh _god,_ ” John breathes. He rubs his nose against Sherlock’s temple and presses a soft kiss there before he moves off of Sherlock and reaches into the top drawer of his nightstand, fumbling around until his fingers wrap around the tiny bottle he’s searching for.

When he turns back to Sherlock, he nearly dies. Sherlock has bent his knees up and let his legs fall open against the cool sheets, offering himself completely to John. John swallows and licks his lips before he crawls up Sherlock’s body, coating his fingers in the slick liquid as he goes. He nips at Sherlock’s lower lip before taking it into his mouth and sucking on it, dropping his hand between Sherlock’s open legs.

Sherlock’s hips snap upwards and he lets out a low groan, pressing against John.

“Alright?” John asks.

“Please,” Sherlock begs, tugging John’s hips closer. “I’m ready. _Please._ ”

“Christ,” John sighs.

Sherlock lets out a strangled moan as John sinks down between his thighs.

“Okay?” John pauses to ask, his entire body trembling with the effort of staying still.

Sherlock throws an arm across his eyes, his toes curling into the sheets and mumbles something rather unintelligible, though John makes it out to be something along the lines of “don’t you dare stop.”

And who would John be to deny Sherlock?

He slowly rolls his hips, bearing down until his hips touch Sherlock’s. Sherlock gasps and clutches at the doctor’s shoulders. John can feel his nails digging into the backs of his shoulder blades, where Sherlock has a vice-like grip on him.

John leans down and presses his lips to Sherlock’s in a soft, chaste kiss. Sherlock hums his appreciation, buries his face into John’s neck and shifts, hooking his heels around the backs of John’s calves, the movement making them both moan in pleasure.

“Christ, Sherlock.” John presses a series of kisses to whatever skin he can reach. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, an air of annoyance apparent in the deep timbre of his voice. “For _God’s_ sake, John, _move._ ”

John gives his hips another experimental roll and they quickly settle into a rhythm.

This Sherlock is rather different, John thinks: incongruent to the tall, confident, looming man who’d been present for the past few weeks, subtly—and also not-so-subtly—finding excuses to touch him. It had driven John completely and utterly insane. So much so that John ‘I’m definitely not gay’ Watson is currently shagging his very male flatmate, and quite exuberantly, at that. This man beneath him could barely function, struggled to form full sentences—and whole words, for that matter. In fact, from the way he kept gasping and sighing and panting, it seemed he was even struggling to do something so simple as breathe.

If John didn’t know any better, he’d say he was shagging Sherlock senseless. And he is rather proud of that fact; that him and him alone could stop that brilliant mind of Sherlock’s, no matter how fleetingly.

They continue on in their set rhythm until Sherlock’s hips stutter, his nails dragging across the rippling, broad expanse of John’s back, surely leaving marks in their wake, and he moans, John’s name slipping from his kiss-swollen lips in a rather nonsensical, drawn out manner.

“Johnnnnn.”

An exclamation of “Sher– lock– _Oh,_ ” follows from John and he slumps down on top of Sherlock, their bodies slick and wet and sticky.

They lay like that for a while, tired and spent and sated until Sherlock finally murmurs, “John, you are absolutely–” He pauses to take a breath. “Brilliant. Marvelous. Amazing. Incredible. Fantastic.”

John smiles into Sherlock’s neck and whispers, “so are you, love,” into his ear, causing Sherlock’s entire body to shudder. John carefully peels himself from atop Sherlock despite the detective’s many protests and pops downstairs to collect a damp flannel from the bathroom. Once John has cleaned them both off—which takes far longer than it should have, seeing as he is forced to stop every few seconds to kiss a demanding Sherlock—he lies back down, tucking the covers around both of them.

Sherlock immediately snuggles up to John’s side, wrapping one long arm around John’s waist and holding him close, one of his legs tucked securely between John’s thighs. John lets his hands wander across Sherlock’s back and shoulders, moving up to tangle in his hair and then back again in a rhythmical cycle. Sherlock nuzzles closer until his face is buried in John’s neck, his nose brushing back and forth against the skin there. John tips his head and presses a kiss to the crown of Sherlock’s head, causing him to hum and shift closer still, until the entire length of his body is pressed against John: all hot, soft flesh and glorious angles.

“You are extraordinary,” John breathes into the silence of the room.

He is met with soft, rhythmical puffs of breath against his neck from the now-sleeping Sherlock. John smiles and soon follows Sherlock into slumber.

******

When John finally wakes, he finds himself somehow even more entangled with Sherlock. The detective’s long limbs are woven around his own in a delightfully intricate manner and Sherlock’s body is nearly directly on top of John, his head tucked underneath John’s chin and resting against his chest.

John has just made the decision to stay in bed with Sherlock for the remainder of his life when his bladder reminds him rather insistently that it needs to be taken care of.

With a sigh, John untangles himself from the grasp of Sherlock’s possessive arms and legs and body, and carefully slides out from under him, taking care to replace the blankets, tucking them around Sherlock’s lithe frame. He pulls on an old pair of sweatpants just in case Mrs. Hudson decides to make an unscheduled appearance in their flat and heads downstairs to use the loo.

Once John has relieved himself, he makes his way into the kitchen and puts the kettle on to make tea. He wanders around the sitting room while he waits for the water to boil and eventually finds himself making his way to the desk where his laptop is unsurprisingly nowhere to be found. Yet Sherlock’s laptop—which he rarely uses, as for some unknown reason, John’s seems to be far more suitable—sits out, the lid half open, just begging to be opened. John does just that.

He intends to just check his email, he really does, but when he opens the laptop and the screen flickers to life, the document that has been previously left open catches his attention. The title written across the top in large, bold block letters reads _The Science of Seduction: A_ _s Studied Upon Dr. John Hamish Watson_ _._ John can’t help himself, and begins to read.

A soft creak of the floorboards captures his attention and he glances up to see Sherlock disappear into the loo. John can’t help but smile to himself at the brief sight of his new lover. A moment later, the door opens and Sherlock reappears. John is rather delighted to find that Sherlock seems to be completely naked still, save for the bed sheet he’s pilfered from John’s bed and expertly wrapped around himself. Not that John minds.

Sherlock grins when he sees John and begins to make his way across the sitting room towards him. John’s eyes register a slight difference to the rhythm of Sherlock’s gait, almost as though he’s limping slightly and– _Oh,_ John thinks to himself, _that would probably be from when they woke up for a second– no, third round, actually._ The mere thought of it—claiming Sherlock as his own in that sense—makes him grin like a lunatic, the contents of the laptop completely forgotten for a moment.

“You alright, love?” John asks, holding out his arms as Sherlock finally reaches him.

Sherlock takes the cue and wastes no time in hiking the sheet up to a positively indecent height on his thighs and swinging a leg over John, climbing into his lap. He presses up against John, letting the sheet fall open slightly at the top and John can’t stop the gasp that escapes his lips as their bare chests touch.

Sherlock nuzzles his nose into John’s neck and hums.

“Sorry, I’ll be more careful next time,” John promises.

“No,” Sherlock insists, his voice rumbling in the crook of John’s neck. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, _love,_ ” Sherlock teases, then begins pressing a series of kisses against John’s neck.

“Hey.” John gently pushes against Sherlock’s chest until he can look at him. “What’s this?” He gestures towards the brightly lit laptop screen.

Sherlock twists around and frowns.

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah. That.”

John raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock gives him a non-committal shrug. “Well, I suppose it worked.”

“You planned all of that?”

“Yes?”

“For me?”

“Always for you, John.”

“What about the river? The bath?” John asks. “Martin McDonald? Did you tell him to pull me into the Thames? Pay him to do it?”

“No, that was just convenient,” Sherlock says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Christ,” John breathes, giving his head a small shake.

A lovely pink blush spreads across Sherlock’s cheeks and he ducks his head, burying his face into John’s broad shoulder.

“Are you mad?” Sherlock mumbles into John’s skin.

“No, course not.” John dips his hands under the sheet and slides them up Sherlock’s back. “But Sherlock, if you wanted something, all you had to do was ask.”

“Anything?” Sherlock asks. John doesn’t miss the suggestive tone of his voice or the curl of his smile against his bare shoulder.

“Anything.” Kiss. “At.” Kiss. “All.” Kiss.

“But–” John pulls back, running a thumb across Sherlock’s cheek. “You’re gonna have to move soon, I can’t feel my legs.”

“And I can’t feel my arse. I think you’ll live.”

John chuckles and pulls Sherlock in for another kiss, this one much less innocent than the previous few they’ve just shared.

“John, wait,” Sherlock pants against John’s mouth. “I have to ask you something.”

“Hmm?”

“This desk. Think it looks sturdy?”

“Why would it– _Oh._ ” John hooks a finger around the edge of the sheet and pulls, letting it fall to the floor. “Yes. _Very_ sturdy.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock says, tugging at the waistband of John’s sweatpants. “Now take these off.”

In one swift motion, John lifts Sherlock up and onto the table, his legs instinctively wrapping around John’s waist and his ankles hooking together behind John’s back. John’s sweatpants go flying over his shoulder in the general direction of the sofa and he buries his fingers in Sherlock’s disheveled hair and pulls him in for a searing kiss.

There is a crash as Sherlock’s laptop is knocked off the desk by his hip and it clatters to the floor. Neither man takes any notice. They continue kissing and kissing and kissing and then they kiss some more, the kettle long forgotten.


End file.
